Needing a diversion, he grabbed a volume of the Pacific Reporter, appellate court opinions that could cure insomnia. He aimed toward the opposite wall, where his diploma was framed under glass.
Southwestern School of Law, that bastion of learning on Wilshire.
Cum non laude.
He threw the book, shattering the glass frame of the diploma with a surprisingly loud crash.
A second later, a figure dashed across the room.
Headed for a small window, the port of entry.
Payne had the angle. Ran for the window, ignoring the pain in his bad leg. Dived and grabbed a sneakered foot, just as the bastard tried to climb out.
Pulled him back by a skinny ankle. The guy yelped and crashed to the floor. Payne jammed his throat with a forearm. Noodle neck. Dragged him across the office, hit the light switch, and looked straight into the eyes of… a boy!
Caramel complexion, a mop of shiny dark hair falling into green eyes with long girlish lashes. A cute kid. Angelic even.
'Get your fuckin' hands off me, cabron!'
Okay, not that angelic.
'Watch your mouth, kid. What the hell are you doing?'
'Looking for mi mami.'
'She's not here. Now, what do you say I call the cops and let them haul you off?'
Even as he said it, Payne knew he couldn't call the police. They'd want to give the kid a medal and lock up his own contemptuous, larcenous self.
'No cops. Please, Senor Payne.' The kid's tone had changed. Pleading now, in a Mexican accent.
'You know my name.'
The kid pulled out the crinkled business card.
'Where'd you get that?'
' Mami. She got it from Fernando Rodriguez.'
It took Payne a second. 'The trailer-truck case?'
The kid nodded.
'I still don't get what you're doing here.'
'My mother. I told you.'
'Kid, don't bullshit a bullshitter.'
'Es verdad.' His green eyes welled with tears. 'My mother came over and disappeared.'
Payne studied the boy. He seemed sincere, his sniffles real enough. Payne's gaze stopped on his desk. Middle drawer open.
'Kid, empty your pockets.'
'Whatever you say, gabacho.'
'Did you just call me 'tomato soup'?'
'Not gazpacho. Gabacho. It means 'gringo.' '
'All right, punk. Just hand over my money.'
Fast as a snake, the kid kicked Payne in the balls. The pain closed Jimmy's eyes, and he sank to one knee. The kid bolted across the office, hoisted himself onto a low bookshelf, and swung both legs through the open window. Payne struggled to his feet but couldn't catch the little bastard. The kid was gone.
Cursing to himself and still wincing with pain, Payne leaned against the wall, sucking in air. A second later, the boy scrambled back through the window.
'What the hell?' Payne said.
'?La policia! You can have your money back.'
The kid pulled the wad of bills from his pants, and Payne sneaked a sideways glance out the window. A police car was parked next to his Lexus, which had all four doors open. Two uniforms with flashlights snooping inside. Payne decided not to shout about illegal searches.
'Please don't turn me over. They'll send me back. Please!' The kid reverting to his scared little-boy voice.
Payne stuffed the bills into his pants pockets. 'You can quit the acting, punk.'
'No, really. I'm scared.'
'Great. That makes two of us.'
Payne peeked out the window again. The cops were walking toward the back door of the office. One had his right hand on his holstered gun. The other used both hands to carry a battering ram. Either they planned to knock down Payne's door or crush his skull. Or both.
TWENTY-THREE
A loud rapping at the door. One of the cops banging away.
'James Payne! You in there?'
Payne quickly did the calculations. Even with his bum leg, he might be able to outrun a couple older cops stuffed with Krispy Kremes. But his glance out the window revealed these two to be of the young linebacker type. Pumped on steroid cocktails with a human growth hormone chaser. In any event, he probably couldn't fit out the window.
'Are you a fast runner?' Payne whispered.
'Like the wind,' the kid boasted.
'Crawl out the window. Make some noise and run like hell. They'll chase you.'
'They'll shoot me.'
'No. But if they catch you, they might smack you around.'
'Payne! We've got a warrant. Open up or we break down the door!'
'Go, kid. Now!'
The boy seemed to think it over. Then a sly smile dimpled his face. 'They're looking for you, chuco. Not me. Why should I risk it?'
'I'll give you a hundred bucks.'
'Two hundred.'
'Jeez, what happened to that crying kid who was here a minute ago?'
'That's it, Payne! We're coming in.' A clang as the battering ram pounded the old wooden door.
'Two hundred,' the kid repeated.
'Okay. Half now. Half when I get out of here and pick you up.' Payne peeled off a hundred and gave it to the kid. 'Take a left out of the parking lot. Cross the street, duck behind the houses, and come out on the next block. Hang a right and get to Van Nuys Boulevard as fast as you can. I'll pick you up at the corner of Van Nuys and Tiara.'
Payne helped the boy hoist himself up to the windowsill. Then the kid tumbled out, shouting, 'Hey cop.? Chinga tu madre! '
Foul-mouthed brat.
The boy took off, the cops yelling for him to stop. Payne edged close to the window. The kid could run. But only one cop followed him. The other resumed banging on the door.
Shit.
Payne headed down the corridor and ducked into the rest room, closing the door behind him. He had to pee, but that's not why he was here. When the cop passed the rest room, Payne could duck out of the office and run.
The rear door splintered and flew off its hinges. 'Payne! Show yourself.'
The office lights switched on. A thud on the bare carpet, the cop dropping the battering ram. Payne heard footsteps come closer. He pictured Officer Muscles with his gun drawn, walking cautiously along the corridor, just a few feet from the rest room.
